All turned to look at the large map of Mafia posted on the bulkhead. It was re-drawn from an ancient nautical chart, with inland features added, such as the sites of villages and Camp van der Merwe.
“That’s a far distance for anything but an electrical light,” Sub-lieutenant Eloy, the aviation staff officer, commented. “And as far as we know, the Pirates on the island don’t have any.”
“Note the high hill on that cape,” Konyn responded. “If the Pirate signaler on the island were high enough, his light wouldn’t have to be extremely bright – and he’d only be sending brief signals acknowledging receipt. The signaler on the mainland could have a light as bright as needed.”
“I can think of any number of ways the Pirates on the island could have kludged together a bright electric signal light, especially if it were to remain in one place,” Cameron said. “My problem with this theory is that the cape is far south of Pirate country. To communicate with guerillas in the north, a messenger would have to pass right through the districts held by the Nosy Be force.”
“Still, it’s possible,” Sam said. “And it’s the only theory we’ve come up with so far. I’m going to task Captain Landry with sending a Kikosi canoe patrol to stand by off the cape at night, watching for any signals. And if they see any, Colonel Malherbe can send a patrol to capture it.
“Now, next item: I want at least two searchlights for Camp van der Merwe by yesterday at the latest. Todd?”
“The engineers tell me they’ll be ready by tomorrow, Commodore. The problem will be humping the awkward bliksemse through the bush up to the camp. They weigh a ton apiece, near.”
“I’m confident you’ll find a way to make it happen promptly, Todd.” This was a favorite expression of the Commodore. Cameron always clearly heard the unspoken or else at the end of the sentence. He sighed inwardly and made a note to himself.
“And speaking of Malherbe: how are his Nosy Be troops coming along in their training? We get weekly reports, don’t we, Todd?”
“Ja, Commodore. From three sources: The Colonel; the head of his askari trainers, Sergeant Major Tendaji; and CPO Gunner Dourif, leading the RKN contingent of trainers. Colonel Malherbe’s reports are more positive than those of the other two, naturally, but both the CSM and CPO Dourif concede that the NBEF is ready for offensive action in the north of the island. During their time in leading strings, they have virtually sanitized the south of Pirate guerillas.”
“Cut ‘em loose, then, Todd. Draft an order for my signature telling Colonel Malherbe to enlarge his area of operations to include the entire island, under the overall command and coordination of Captain Landry. Copy Landry, of course.
“Next, I want to hear about our progress on improved weapons, sensors, and platforms.”
“Well, Commodore, as you know, we are now up to eight Puffins. The five latest are the new Model B Puffins, with reinforced airframes allowing them to engage in dive bombing. They have an automatic gadget that pulls the nose up when the bomb release is tripped, in case the pilot blacks out from gee forces. They’re also armed with the new lightweight 37mm semi-automatic gun, which, with explosive shells, should prove to be a real dhow-killer. We’re hoping it’ll be a Fat Boy killer as well.
“All the B-models have a new electronic compass, more reliable and more precise than the old one. We’ll get three more soon to install in the older Puffins. These new compasses are adjustable for changes in the airplanes’ magnetic profile – bomb load, ammo, and so forth.
“Most promising: a radio guidance system, making use of the new compasses’ greater accuracy. It’s in effect a radio direction finder. It can follow a radio beam out to a target on a known bearing, then home in on the beam to return home safely – in conditions of low or no visibility. The next Puffin B we get will come equipped with the prototype, for testing under field conditions. If it works, Puffins can become night bombers! We can raid Stone Town at night, Commodore, when their AA will be useless!”
“But how will our pilots find specific targets, if the Pirates black out at night, as they surely will after the very first raid?”
“Flares, Commodore. Parachute flares. They’ll illuminate the target without betraying the exact position of the planes.”
“How about Puffins so equipped in the night-fighter role? Will that work?”
“Maybe. I’m thinking there’ll be still the problem of sighting Fat Boy in the dark. But I’m no aviator, Commodore – Commander Schofield can address that issue better than I can.”
“That reminds me – any news about how the long-awaited magic of radar is coming along?”
“Last I heard, Commodore, the gear and the antenna are still too big and heavy even for a vessel the size of Charlie, much less an airplane. And it needs a lot of electric power. But it works as advertised.”
“What if we could set up a ground installation, with its own MG set, as an early warning system for Fat Boy? And smuggling dhows? D’you suppose it could be precise enough to direct gunfire?”
The officers around the table looked at one another in surprise.
“Wah, Commodore, I never heard anyone mention such uses before,” Cameron exclaimed, eyes wide. “Everyone has been focused on ship-borne, and lately aerial applications. I’ll get a message off to RKN French Port ASAP, asking them to research this with the electronic boffins working on radar development.” He scribbled furiously in his notebook.
Shortly afterward, the meeting broke up. “Todd, stick around for a minute or two, please,” Sam said.
When everyone else had gone, He said, “Todd, I’m surprised that Dave hasn’t been at me with requests for bombing Stone Town again, especially now that he’s got these model-B Puffins – the ones capable of dive-bombing. Is he sick or something?”
Cameron hesitated, then replied, “May I be frank, Commodore?”
“Of course, Todd – always.”
“Dave thinks you have no respect for his ideas on the uses of air power, and he doesn’t want another rebuff from you – especially not a public one, like last time. Apparently, that really stung. He remarked to me that, now you have an aviation staff officer, he’ll keep his opinions to himself.”
“Merde, Todd, he can’t believe I rely on a sub-lieutenant for strategic advice – Eloy’s on staff just to advise us of technical details like range and speed of planes – stuff like that!”
“I know that, Commodore, and Dave does, too. I think he was being sarcastic. I should have added the context: he had previously noted that he was not being invited to sit in on all staff meetings, just those including COs.”
“I see.” Sam had not included COs in this meeting, nor in several earlier ones, because only two were locally available, and a meeting aboard Charlie meant a long boat ride before and after for Captain Kendall, who was of course as busy as any vessel captain.
“It occurs to me that we could benefit from Dave’s greater experience in aviation at all flag staff meetings. Put him on the list of attendees.”
“Aye aye, Commodore.”
When Cameron had left the flag mess, Sam poured the last cup from the coffee jug and went into his day cabin, where the usual stack of paperwork awaited him. He began listlessly to go through it, then started muttering a string of profanity that would have blistered the ears of the saltiest seaman, had one been present. The Kerguelenian tongue, a creole of three languages with contributions from a fourth, was extraordinarily rich in obscenities; a life at sea had given him command of them all; and he went on loading and firing until he ran out of curses.
It was not the paperwork, obnoxious to him as it was, that prompted this torrent, but a self-revulsion that he realized had been growing for some time. His grief over the loss of Maddie had hardened him, made him single-minded in his pursuit of the war, but uncaring about the feelings of the men and women he led in that effort. They had become mere tools, weapons in his arsenal.
A return of empathy made him realize how he must have dampened Dave Schofield�
�s enthusiasm and flow of ideas, the incredible stresses he was imposing on Todd Cameron; showed him his complete lack of appreciation for the quiet efficiency of his flag captain, Benoit Murphy – and, indeed, all the other COs in the task force. He was blessed, as few commanders ever were, in the quality of his officers and seamen – and he took them all completely for granted.
He felt a sudden claustrophobia in the tiny airless cubicle, and went topsides. An awning was rigged over the quarterdeck, and a stiff breeze was riffling the waters of Chole Bay. Sam took a deep breath, and felt calmer.
The sun was covered at intervals by low, racing clouds, and Sam sensed a coming change in the weather. He walked over to the wheel house and stepped into the tiny chart room to check the barometer. As he suspected it was low, and it was falling rapidly according to recent logged entries. A storm was coming.
Sam regarded this as, on balance, good news for the task force. Tonight was the last moonless period long enough for a Fat Boy raid for at least the next ten nights. A storm, or even higher-than-usual winds, meant no raid tonight by the under-powered zeppelin – and an extra day for working on a practical defense against it before the next raid.
As Sam stepped out of the chart room, seamen were beginning to un-rig the awning, which was flapping madly in the rising wind, and was in any case superfluous given the increasing cloudiness. He looked forward, and saw the aviation deck crew doubling the lashings holding the Puffins in their cradles, and securing the booms. Dave Schofield was on deck, overseeing this work. On an impulse, Sam walked forward.
He startled Schofield and the seamen on his approach. He had made it a practice to stick to ‘flag country’ so as not to seem to infringe on the prerogatives of Captain Murphy and his XO, so they were surprised to see him this far forward on an ordinary working day. Dave stiffened to attention, and seemed uncertain whether to salute, since neither he nor the Commodore were covered.
“Goeiemore, Dave, and for Christ’s sake stand at ease, will you? We’re not on parade – I just want a chat.”
“Aye aye, Commodore, and good morning to you,” Schofield replied, relaxing just perceptibly.
“I owe you an apology, Dave. The last time you brought up a suggestion for a bombing raid on Stone Town, I was rude to you – publicly and inexcusably. I’ve come to beg your forgiveness, and promise it won’t happen again.”
Schofield turned bright red, and stammered, “No apology necessary, Commodore … prerogatives of rank …”
Sam cut him off. “Bullshit, Dave. Rudeness, especially public rudeness, is not a prerogative of rank, not in this Navy. And I intend to repeat this at the next conference you attend. Do you accept my apology?”
“Of course, Commodore! Accepted and forgotten!”
“Thanks, Dave. I deeply appreciate your generosity of spirit, although, knowing you, it’s no more than I expected.
“And speaking of the next conference you attend: I’ve instructed Todd to put you on the regular list of attendees at all flag staff meetings, as well as meetings of task force COs. I’ve come to realize that we need your aviation experience and expertise at every conference at which we discuss strategy – which is, of course, all of them. I know these meetings are time-eaters, and you have a lot on your plate, but I need you there.”
“Aye, Commodore. Happy to attend.”
“That reminds me, too, of something I’ve been meaning to mention to you: you need a deputy to whom you can delegate some of your more routine duties; a squadron XO. Think about who would best serve in that role. If you feel a rise in rank would be proper, let Todd know, and I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks, Commodore. I’ve already got someone who’s doing that job unofficially: Poet -- Lieutenant Ballinger -- the senior surviving pilot. He’ll appreciate the recognition. And the promotion, which he’s earned.”
“Make it so, then, Dave. Have a good day.”
“You too, Commodore.”
Conscience much relieved, Sam walked back toward the quarterdeck, and met Dr. Marie Girard, apparently taking the air. She wore her usual all-white working garb, and her long coat fluttered in the breeze. He noted that she wore a black ribbon pinned to her lapel to signify that she was in mourning. This reminded him that, by custom, he ought to wear a black mourning band on his sleeve. It hadn’t occurred to him – he felt his grief written on his face for all to see.
“Good morning, Doctor,” he said. “Are you serving aboard Charlemagne now? I thought you were in Albatros.” He bit his tongue as he said this; obviously she had left Albatros because it reminded her too vividly of the death of her husband, who had died in action on her quarterdeck. As senior medical officer in the task force – indeed, in the entire Navy – she could serve in whatever vessel she wished.
“Yes. I switched, again, with Doctor Cheah.
“Commodore, this is my first opportunity to offer my condolences on the loss of your wife. I can imagine what a blow it must have been.”
“Thank you, Doctor. And please accept my belated condolences on the loss of your husband – my loss, too, since he was my oldest friend in the service. I apologize for not seeking you out sooner.”
“No apology necessary, Commodore. I can imagine how busy you must have been since your return to the task force. It seems the Pirates have robbed both of us of our spouses. And within a brief period, too – a very tragic coincidence. We have much to avenge.”
“And vengeance we shall have, Marie, to the greatest degree within my power. May I resume calling you Marie? We’ve served together too long – had too much happen between us – to be so formal when we’re alone together.”
He knew that she knew that he referred to the brief but torrid affair they had had, before either of them married, aboard the Albatros while in drydock in French Port. Sam believed that their feelings had matured into a strong but platonic friendship; both were in denial about the fact that, despite their genuine love for their late spouses, they were still more than half in love with each other.
“Of course, Sam,” she replied. “I feel that my loss has only deepened my need for friendship – your friendship, as someone who has been a friend to my dear Bill for so long, who shared my affection for him. And my loss makes me feel more deeply what must be the great pain of your loss, for which I am deeply grieved.”
Her words pierced the hard shell with which he had encapsulated his misery, his awful sense of loss, a carapace put in place to allow him to function in the only role he thought left to him in life: killer of Pirates. His eyes stung, and for a terrible moment he was afraid that he would break down in tears.
He mastered himself just in time, and quickly changed the subject. “Are you very busy, now, Marie?”
“Hardly at all. Oh, I have the usual handful of hypochondriacs at sick call, whom I can satisfy with a placebo – but it must be me administering it, not an intern. Apparently, the magic doesn’t work unless it’s delivered by a bona fide surgeon!” They both laughed.
“Aside from the normal work accidents – which, not so coincidentally, always seem to occur soon after 1100 …” Sam grimaced at this, but kept his mouth firmly shut; Marie thought the liquor ration should be reduced, or served out after the normal work day; Sam knew the hands liked what they were used to, and they were used to a right stiff elevenses; this was a difference of opinion he and Marie would never resolve.
“…I have a few, a very few, chronic sufferers from old wounds. Most are manageable, and none of the sufferers want to give up the sea. The one that bothers me most is that of the Gunnery Officer, Mister Du Plessis, who transferred from Albatros to Charlemagne after you shifted your flag. You may remember the circumstances of his wound …”
“I do indeed. During battle, a poor clumsy seaman dropped an explosive shell with a sensitive contact fuse. He heroically threw himself onto it, saving many lives at the sacrifice of his own, but many were injured. I remember the Gunner’s wound – a horrible – and horribly inconvenient one, in the, in the …
buttocks, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I thought at the time he would make a full recovery, since the hip joint was not involved, and at first, he seemed to recover, with no more than a slight limp to remind him. But his pain continued, and I fear nerve damage in the gluteal muscles.”
“Can you operate, and fix it”
Marie smiled, and replied, “No, Sam. I’m afraid his problem is inoperable, at our current stage of knowledge.”
“Poor man. Must we put him ashore? Retire him?”
“No. He doesn’t want to, and the pain is independent of physical activity – rest doesn’t lessen it. I can only alleviate his pain with drugs.” She paused, then went on, “This brings me to a secret I’ve been meaning to share with you, Sam.”
“A secret? A medical secret? Whatever …?”
“Yes, a medical secret. I discovered a drug new to me on Nosy Be, a drug with properties both wonderful and dangerous. It’s called opium. It was very expensive, but I bought all I could find on the island, using my own funds. I’ve been using it sparingly, only for the relief of severe pain, but I’m running low. I need to order some for delivery by the Soet Melissa’s next supply run. Like I said, it’s expensive but I no longer have the personal funds readily available to me to buy it, so …”
“Say no more, Marie. Of course, any needed medicines must be at the Navy’s expense. But what’s ‘wonderful’ and ‘dangerous’ about this … opium?”
“It’s wonderful because it’s the best analgesic any doctor could ask for – it’s effective in relieving even the most severe pain.
“It’s dangerous for two reasons: one is that it gives the user a great deal of pleasure, one might even say joy; a sense of well-being and happiness unmatched by any other intoxicant. And that’s dangerous because the drug is highly, highly addictive. As expensive as it is, it’s already becoming something of a social problem on Nosy Be, for that reason.”
“Where does it come from – how is it made?”
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 34
